


Proofreading

by keelywolfe



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: AU, M/M, Oral Sex, Universe Alterations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 05:18:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/879885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keelywolfe/pseuds/keelywolfe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo honestly wanted Thorin to be the very first to read his book. Though perhaps sneaking into his rooms in the middle of the night to ask him what he thought of it was a bit much.</p><p> </p><p>Minor universe alterations: Bilbo stays in Erebor after the end of the book, along with other, obvious changes in who is still alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Proofreading

**Author's Note:**

> Can I just say I like the phrase 'universe alterations' for minor changes to a universe, as opposed to using Alternate Universe which can often mean everyone might just be cowboys or aliens or whatever else sounds good today? Just had to say it. *G*

* * *

It wasn't so terrible long ago that Bilbo would have protested, loudly and vigorously to anyone who might have listened, that he was not a burglar, thank you very much and would you please close the door behind you.

If he'd managed better than splutters and indignation at the time, Bilbo supposed he might be at home right now. At this hour he'd likely be tucked into his cozy armchair with a blanket tucked over his lap, a book at hand, and a cup of tea at his elbow, heavy with sugar and cream. 

Of course, he hadn't scuffled a large group of Dwarves out of his pantry and home, hadn’t stayed at Bag End and avoided what had turned out to be quite the adventure indeed. He'd run out his front door along the long, winding road that had led him to a mountain and here he'd stayed, for now. 

He did not have his armchair, true, though the one in his rooms was quite comfy and it turned out that Dwarven blankets were very plush indeed. His tea was at this very moment in his hand and his book, well, his book was why he was currently putting to use the title he'd earned by the end of his journey. 

Bilbo Baggins, burglar extraordinaire. He supposed it wasn't the grandest of titles and what he was currently looking to steal was his in the first place. Whether that counted as burgling or not, he wasn't certain. But there was a certain thrill to creeping along the darkened hallways of Erebor, the lanterns cast low in deference to the night sky above. It put him in mind of Mirkwood, the weeks of creeping through shadows and while he knew his memory had shaded it with a certain brilliant excitement that he had not felt at the time, here, in the safety of Erebor, he could creep past the night guard invisibly, smug with his own cleverness. 

Sneaking past the _King's_ guard, however, carried a low thread of guilt along with it. Thorin would no doubt be quite cross with his personal guardsman for not catching a sneaky little Hobbit tiptoeing past their post, whether or not that Hobbit was in possession of a magic ring. Tomorrow they would likely get a blistering earful of his wroth and Bilbo made himself a promise that he'd be elsewhere when that time came. After all, if there was one magic ring in the world then surely there were others. A King's guard should be better prepared to fend off would-be assassins and thieves, as well as the occasional Hobbit.

His guilt would not help one jot or tittle if their ill-preparedness caused…well. Best not to think about that. 

Besides, this was not about Thorin's guard and if Bilbo was testing their skills it was certainly unintentional. This was about a book and a cup of tea, and hopefully sitting by the fire discussing literature with a friend. 

A friend. The thought made Bilbo smile. Yes, a friend, Thorin carried that simple title with the same dignity he did the greater one of King, along with a warmth that was all its own. A friend to Thorin Oakenshield was not a name Bilbo had ever thought to earn, and had he been asked while still surveying the wreckage of his pantry, he'd have said he'd not want the wretched friendship of any Dwarf, much less one who'd chosen to insult him with hardly a boot inside his front door. 

Such was their friendship these days that Bilbo did not consider another when it came to choosing one to be the very first to read his books. Oh, Ori might have been a better choice when it came to interpretations and editing, and Balin could certainly have helped him verify certain facts concerning Dwarves. Even Bofur would have read it with cheer and likely heaped him with glowing praise that would have been of little assistance with corrections and yet, would have filled Bilbo with pride to the point of bursting.

But Thorin…

Perhaps it was just as well that he was invisible so that there were none who could see the heat that Bilbo could feel rising in his face. Thorin had been so very _pleased_ when Bilbo had nervously offered him the first chance to read his telling of their tale. He'd accepted the book with the same reverence he might in taking a fragile antiquity or a religious artifact. 

And now it was nighttime and surely Thorin had to have read some of it, hadn't he? Perhaps it was the crassest sort of arrogance for Bilbo to assume that Thorin had wasted any time out of his extremely busy day to read a book written by his Hobbit friend. Yet, Bilbo had not been able to resist the urge to…to check in, perhaps. And again, it was crass and even deplorable to be sneaking into Thorin's chambers for a peek, for if Thorin was reading it even now, Bilbo could simply sneak back out and their conversation could be over breakfast tea and scones. 

That was, if he could resist the urge to slip the ring off and ask Thorin outright if he was enjoying the book. 

The door to the King's chambers was hidden in what seemed to be a seamless ream of stone, so perhaps Bilbo could offer some forgiveness to the guards, for not every burglar who crept through these passages would know what words to whisper that would allow it to swing open wide enough for a Hobbit to slip inside. Not every thief would have just been in these chambers this morning for breakfast, nor again at afternoon tea, clutching the self-same book that he sought now with sweating hands as he stammered out an offer for the King to read it, if he had the time, if he didn't mind, if if if.

The antechamber was empty, rather understandable at this hour, and though Bilbo had never been in them, he knew where the sleeping quarters lay. His feet were silent on the elegant tiles, the cup in his hands still warm. His intention was to offer the tea to Thorin, who did enjoy a cup in the evening, and perhaps a cheeky smile at having made his way past the guards. It would either earn him a laugh or a scowl, but either way, a peace offering would be worth having.

There was a darkened corridor on the way to the bedchamber, lined with alcoves that held treasures, statues in some, and there was at least one that bore the wounds of surviving dragon's fire. Weapons in others, hung from hooks and pegs, and Bilbo winced at the sight of them, hurrying along to the door. It opened on silent hinges, for no Dwarf door would dare creak within its Master's hearing, and behind it, Bilbo expected to see Thorin sitting at the fire, book in his lap. Barring that, he'd be snoring away in his bed and Bilbo would creep shamefacedly back out and cage his impatience till morning.

That he found neither was not something he'd been prepared to discover.

Thorin did have his book; that at least was true. Only he was not reading it, sitting politely at the fireside with a blanket over his lap as Bilbo was wont to do. There was a book and there was a blanket, and that was quite as far as the comparison went.

In the first, Thorin was not in a chair at all. He was in his own bed, sprawled out amongst the pillows and bedcovers and while the blanket was covering his lap, it seemed to Bilbo that it was the only thing covering it, for where the blanket ended in a rumple at his hips, above it was nothing but swathes of bare skin, gilded in the crackling glow of the firelight. 

One large hand was splayed carelessly over his belly, fingers tangled softly in the smattering of dark curls there and Bilbo swallowed against the sudden dryness in his throat, his eyes traveling upwards. The bareness of his chest was mostly covered by the opened book, resuming at his throat, the line of it curving where Thorin's head was tipped back against the pillows, glints of firelight catching in his silvered hair where it was spread out over the cushions as if arranged by a lover's hand.

Oh, where had that ridiculous thought come from, Bilbo scolded himself. Poetry should be reserved for pages and not absurd fantasies composed over friends who were doing nothing more remarkable than sleeping. Though he would admit, he'd never seen Thorin without the many layers that Dwarves tended to wear, not when he wasn't injured and then he'd been wrapped in bandages, which was neither appealing nor aesthetically pleasing. 

Not as he was now…and Bilbo nearly yelped aloud at the slosh of hot tea on his bare toes. He'd not even noticed the cup tipping from his hands and he slipped off his ring with a sigh, tucking it into his pocket to survey the damages. 

His toes weren't even reddened, his long walk had cooled the tea that much, at least, and Bilbo set the now empty cup aside, biting his lip as he took in the scene again. 

He should...well, he should really take the book away, shouldn't he. There was only that one copy and the pages could get bent. Mussed. Might even break the binding and Bilbo had done it himself, he wouldn't want to see it ruined.

Warily, Bilbo reached for it, not wishing to startle Thorin awake for a number of reason, beginning with the fact that he did not want a fist in the face for his troubles from a barely awake Dwarf. And after a round beating and the subsequent apologies, he'd have to explain to Thorin why he was in his rooms to begin with. A reason that seemed more ludicrous with each passing moment. 

With the lightest touch he could manage, Bilbo gently lifted Thorin's hand from the book cover, careful to touch nothing but his wrist, thank you very much. As close as he was, he could see the slight lines at the corners of Thorin's eyes were relaxed in sleep, his lips parted as he breathed quietly. There were faint violet shadows beneath his lashes, a testament to his exhaustion. Small wonder he'd fallen asleep, though Bilbo hoped that wasn't a subtle commentary on the book.

Bilbo blinked and realized he'd been staring, still holding Thorin's wrist like a fool. 

Gently, he set Thorin's hand down next to the other, on his belly, and tried not to notice how terribly soft the hair there looked, much finer than he would have thought, Dwarves being all woolly everywhere. There was a silky, dark trail of it down his belly that disappeared beneath his hand and resumes lower in a thicker patch just before it vanished beneath the blanket and…and he was staring again. 

Oh, this simply wouldn't do, Bilbo groaned inwardly. Enough of this. He was going to retrieve his book and then retreat and whatever questions Thorin had about how it had returned to Bilbo's possession would wait for breakfast. The book was resting innocently on Thorin's chest, offering no commentary on how long it was taking Bilbo to rescue it from the clutches of a sleeping Dwarf. 

Carefully, Bilbo picked up the book, shutting it as he lifted and there, that wasn't nearly the challenge he'd imagined it would be...until Thorin made a sleepy little sound and moved, one hand rising quick as a snake and circling Bilbo's wrist in an unyielding grip.

Bilbo only just barely stifled a shriek that might have brought guards galloping in, turning it into a garbled cry that was in turn muffled into the book he'd just smacked into his own face

Thorin's hold didn't hurt, thank heavens, his grip was firm but not painful. Bilbo's nose was suffering worse; the heavy cover of the book was not meant to be wielded as a weapon but apparently it would serve. His wrist was in no danger of being broken and indeed, his nose might have suffered further if Thorin had struck out instead of latched on, so that was all right then.

Unfortunately, 'did not hurt' was not synonymous with, 'let go'.

Bilbo gave a half-hearted tug, testing the limits of that careful strength. Which in his opinion was somewhere around the level of mithril. Thorin's fingers did not so much as wriggle, curled as stubbornly around Bilbo's wrist as if they had sprouted there just so.

Oh, confound it, Bilbo groaned inwardly. All he'd wanted was to retrieve his book and perhaps take a moment, or several, and discuss it with Thorin. Stubborn as he was and unyielding as he was, when it came to literature Thorin could be surprisingly insightful. And Thorin would have no compunction about flatly telling Bilbo if it were wretched.

It was a brutal honesty, but honesty nonetheless.

He had not planned on being snared like the bunny Beorn had nicknamed him and Bilbo gave his wrist another fruitless tug, unsurprised as he gained not an jot or tittle of freedom.

Blast and damnation, but this was ridiculous! Bilbo huffed out a breath, resigned to simply waking Thorin as gently as he could and...oh. Bilbo wilted, words falling away unspoken. With the book removed and his hands shifted away, Thorin was left bare as a babe from his nose to his navel and he was...oh, dear.

No babe at all, not Thorin, his well-muscled chest, finely dusted with hair that mingled dark and silver in a match to the hair on his head. Here and there were scars, ridges and puckers that spoke of a hard life lived. The firelight cast his skin with warmth, touching it golden, and Bilbo stared helplessly, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest with each breath.

He didn't think about moving his free hand, not at all. It simply moved without his permission, the same as his tongue occasionally offered words without consulting him first, insulting Wizards and Dwarves alike with nary a pause.

His hand was much the same and Bilbo sucked in a breath through his teeth as it settled on Thorin's belly, resting just above the shallow dip of his navel.

Soft. Soft skin, soft hair against his palm. Warmth, so very warm against his suddenly clammy hand that Bilbo wondered nonsensically if he might not be seared.

This...this was a terrible idea, absolutely terrible, if you could call something that he hadn't thought at all about an idea. His fingers curled, so slightly, just barely combing through those silky curls and Bilbo found himself wondering dazedly how they would feel against his nose. Ticklishly soft and he'd be close enough to draw in a lungful of Thorin's heavy, sleep-sweet scent.

Bilbo closed his eyes, trying desperately not to imagine it. Too late, far too late, and a darted glance at Thorin's face said he still slept, deeply.

Did he dare...could he possibly...

His mouth was fairly watering with a need just to taste the air closest to Thorin, breathe him in. That wasn't such a terrible thing to steal. He'd stolen worse, not so very long ago.

It wasn't daring so much as a desperate sort of panic that had him leaning down until just the tip of his nose brushed those soft curls of hair. He drew in a deep breath through his mouth, tasting the very air, the rich, heady scent of Thorin so terribly close to his lips. Exhaled a slow, soft stream of air that stirred through that fine hair and drew in another.

His sense of time dwindled away and Bilbo had no idea how long he stood there, breathing Thorin in. He smelled of many things, pipe smoke and leather, the faintest tang of sweat and soap and beneath it all, something that was undeniably Thorin. Heavy and rich, it made Bilbo think of the air after a lightning strike, of lovely, exotic things.

It was engrossing, enrapturing, so much so that he never realized he had been released. Not until a hand settled gently on the back of his head, thick fingers sifting gently through his hair.

Bilbo froze, near-choking on his last breath and clarity was a horrible gift, for it made him aware that he was in the King's bedroom without permission and perilously close to groping him whilst he slept.

Surely that was punishable by death, and if not, Bilbo thought he might insist they make an exception for him.

Bilbo had had his awkward moments here and there in the Shire but never before had he managed to squeeze a lifetime of embarrassment into such a short moment. Desperately, Bilbo tried to gather his scattered wits, a useless endeavor to be sure, because what could he possibly SAY?

_Oh, heavens, don't mind me, Thorin, I was simply testing the theory as to whether you smelled as delectable as you look. You should be happy to know that you do, very much so, and I do thank you for the indulgence._

No, that would never do. Even if Bilbo could say such a thing, his tongue didn't seem capable of grasping anything past nonsensical consonants. Perhaps if he were given a moment, he might add vowels but at this time words seemed to be far past his abilities.

Abruptly, Bilbo realized that whilst he was in the middle of panicking to death, he had not actually moved and was still close enough to Thorin that he could stick his tongue out and taste him and blast it all, he would have that thought just now.

Hastily, Bilbo scrambled back, or would have, if Thorin's grip had not proven to be as implacable as it was before.

Firm, strong fingers precisely on the back of Bilbo's head, holding him down and for a dizzying moment of relief, Bilbo thought perhaps Thorin was still sleeping. Of course, it made perfect sense. Still asleep and simply catching hold of whatever was tickling at him, like swatting at a fly.

The slightest turn of his head was enough to disabuse him of that notion. Sleepy blue eyes were peering down at him, barely visible beneath heavy lids and lashes. Drowsy, yes, but so very much awake. 

His grip was unyielding to Bilbo's silent plea to be released and instead Thorin only sighed aloud, letting his head drop back down against the counterpane as he murmured, "You needn't stop."

Soft words, hardly able to be heard over the crackle of the fire and Bilbo could not move, could hardly breathe. Thorin couldn't mean…he simply couldn't. They were friends, true, they'd travelled together, shared adventures and arguments and so very much more. Bilbo might even be bold enough to declare they shared something past friendship, something deeper and far more visceral. 

But not…not like this. 

Curls of hair were still tickling at his nose and every panicked breath Bilbo drew in sent another wash of Thorin's scent through him. Swamping him with it, saturating, until Bilbo thought he might be filled to the brim, a cup overflowing. The hand in his hair shifted, large fingers lightening their grip, shifting down to rest on the back of his neck, one broad thumb running along the line of Bilbo's jaw. Featherlight weight against him, one that could easily be shrugged away. 

Offering him a way out, Bilbo realized, and he could see it clearly as a vision. He could draw back now, step away from Thorin with his book clutched in his arms and stammer out whatever excuse might tumbled through the clotted tightness of his throat. Thorin would nod, perhaps, or murmur a soft word or two of goodnight and Bilbo could flee, bare feet silent on the intricate tiles and rugs of the royal living quarters, and tomorrow when they met for breakfast, he and Thorin could exchange polite good mornings over platefuls of fruit and buttery scones, drinking the small beer that Dwarves preferred with their morning meals and neither of them would say a word about this night. 

The tiny sound that escaped Bilbo's throat was hardly audible yet it seemed to carry and beneath his nose Thorin's belly rose as he inhaled sharply, even as Bilbo sank in towards it resting his cheek against warm skin as he drew in another lungful of Thorin-drenched air. 

He could feel the low rumble of Thorin's groan as he burrowed into the silky curls on his belly, pressing his lips wetly to whatever skin he could reach. The faint salt taste of him made Bilbo's mouth water and he had to swallow away the soft well of saliva that rose up, not nearly ashamed enough about nearly drooling to mouth at Thorin's belly. 

The line of the bed linens cut sharply across Thorin's hips, hiding his lower body from view. Finely woven as the cloth was, it could not possibly hope to disguise the heavy bulge of his groin and Bilbo nudged at the sheet with the tip of his nose, distantly wondering at his own daring. The heady scent of him was no longer enough and the hand drawing lazily down Bilbo's back felt like permission. He followed the dark line of hair leading downward with his lips, plucking at the sheet with his fingertips until Thorin obeyed his unspoken command and lifted his hips, allowing Bilbo to draw it aside. 

Oh. Bilbo wet his lips, drinking in the sight of Thorin bared before him. His legs were slightly spread, thighs nearly as broad as both of Bilbo's together cradled the heavy length of his cock between them and that was the sight that held Bilbo captivated, swallowing down another wet gush of eager saliva. The length was not much more than Bilbo's own, swollen hard and leaking a trail of clear wetness against his belly. It was the girth that left Bilbo blinking, nearly as thick around as his own wrist and could he possibly take that into the smallness of his mouth, could he—

Bilbo wrapped a damp, trembling hand around the length, closed his eyes at the feel of hot skin against his palm. Barely, his fingertips met around it, holding the shaft steady as he ducked his head to lap away the soft jewel of fluid pooling at the tip. 

Distantly, Bilbo heard the cracked shout that escaped Thorin, wordless desperation and a hard thump that he only just recognized as a fist slamming down into the softness of the mattress. Beneath him, Thorin was still as stone, the muscles of his belly and thighs jerked and quivered from the effort, twitching as Bilbo carefully smoothed the foreskin from the head, set the tip of his tongue beneath the pronounced ridge and ran along it in a slippery circle.

The low word that growled from Thorin's throat was not one Bilbo knew, a curse perhaps, or a plea, he could only guess. But the hoarseness, the fractured throatiness begged him far sweeter than the tenderest language. 

With a whimper of his own, Bilbo parted his lips and allowed Thorin to press inside, the wideness of the head prying his teeth lightly apart, finding a place to rest against his tongue. Bilbo swallowed desperately, spit was escaping from his mouth in his eagerness, wetting his fingers in messy rivulets. It was almost more than he could take, his lips buried into his own fist where it was tight around the remaining length, his breathing choked and desperate and he could not, could not take any more. The light nudge against his soft palette made him swallow convulsively and oh, he felt Thorin shudder, the throb of his cock resonating against Bilbo's tongue. 

His jaw already ached and Bilbo wasn't entirely sure he could breathe, he was not getting enough air or perhaps too much, he couldn't tell. He could only relax his throat, drawing up the hard length to suck wetly at the head and steal another pulse of the heavy salt taste of him. It was addictive, Bilbo thought dizzily, teasing out another slippery droplet with the tip of his tongue. Thorin's voice rose in a shocked cry, his hands suddenly desperate at Bilbo's hips and Bilbo didn’t have a chance to wonder at it as he was abruptly lifted and moved, legs spread as he found himself straddling Thorin's chest. It made it easier, he found to his delight, easier to tip his head back and fill his mouth with every inch that he could possibly take. 

He hardly noticed the ease of his own trousers past the fact that it was suddenly easier to breathe, didn't bother to wonder at what Thorin was doing so long as he could continue sliding his mouth wetly down Thorin's cock, breathing in the smell of his sex, swallowing the musky taste of him. 

To feel a large hand drawing him from his own trousers made Bilbo choke on a muffled cry, whimpering desperately through his nose as Thorin buried his face between Bilbo's legs and inhaled deeply, mouthing at his sac with rough skill. His beard was exquisitely abrasive, catching against the light tangle of hair and Thorin had no difficulty in taking the hard swell of Bilbo's cock between his lips, swallowing him down to the root with voracious eagerness. 

The very world seemed to blur around him, narrowing to the feel of Thorin sucking him with quick, wet pulls, his tongue as marvelously skilled at this as his hands were at kneading Bilbo's backside, urging him to thrust down, to follow the unwavering rhythm building. Bilbo could only struggle to follow it, catching on with stilted, faltering pushes and pulls, meeting the rise of Thorin's hips and rocking back into the fervor of his mouth, on odd, obscene loop that he followed round and he wasn't going to last, he simply wasn't, he was going to spill into the hot clench of Thorin's mouth surrounding him. 

The rumbling vibration against his cock drew a cry of his own, endlessly looping sensation and the sudden wet heat that surged over Bilbo's tongue nearly choked him, forcing him to gulp desperately, his mouth filled to overflowing and the abrupt realization that Thorin had come, was still coming, tipped him over the edge of his own pleasure. Bilbo came to the taste of Thorin's seed still wet on his tongue, spilling into the dark, perfect heat of Thorin's mouth eagerly surrounding him and oh, he could feel it, the slippery weight of it sliding between his cock and Thorin's tongue before it was swallowed away. 

His jaw was aching when Bilbo finally allowed Thorin to slip free. It nearly hurt to close his mouth, as though he'd grown accustomed to having his mouth held open wide in that brief time, his body rejecting the idea of returning to the point of not having a part of Thorin inside him. 

Ridiculous, Bilbo told himself fiercely, licking his lips and tasting the wet smears of seed still painting them. The taste was as vivid as his scent, that rich, heavy musk and Bilbo gave in to the guilty urge to lick the streaks from his hand, suckling his fingers for every stray droplet. Soon there was nothing but the blandness of his own skin and Bilbo finally subsided, letting his forehead drop against the hard plane of Thorin's belly. 

Breathing, Bilbo decided, breathing was good and if he lay here a moment and concentrated on simply breathing, he could ignore the slow return of his good sense, creeping back in with the relentlessness of the tide. If he simple breathed then he didn't have to realize with slowly dawning horror that he was still sprawled out over Thorin, his knees very nearly on his shoulders and Thorin had buried his own face against Bilbo's inner thigh, his breath hot and his beard damp and tantalizingly rough. 

It was Thorin who raised his head first, though not before he pressed a surprisingly gentle kiss against the tender skin there, close to the juncture where hip met thigh. His voice was harsher than normally, verging on raw as he grated out, "Come here."

Not at all a question and that was certainly normal enough; Thorin did not ask when he could demand and he did not implore when he could order. Yet, perhaps only Bilbo would have heard the thread of a plea in that voice, the faint quaver of uncertainty and surely if Bilbo fled now there would be no polite breakfast in the morning, possibly never again. 

Bilbo sighed, watched as the soft curls of hair that tickled at his nose wavered beneath stream of his breath, and with all the Tookish arrogance he had, Bilbo clambered around, ignoring any grunts of discomfort when his knee or elbow found a tender place.There was a bit of negotiating for the proper removal of clothing along with a quick, silent bit of bartering for the correct amount of space, until finally Bilbo was left curled up against Thorin's side, tucked beneath his arm with broad fingers stroking lightly between his shoulder blades.

"And what did you think of my book then?" Bilbo asked with sleepy impertinence, for there seemed to be little else to say just now, nothing that couldn't wait for the clear light of day and a touch of settling. 

He felt the chest beneath his cheek shake in silent laughter and Bilbo lifted his head with a scowl, glaring down at Thorin. Only to falter at the warmth that greeted him, nothing so mild as fondness was gleaming from Thorin's eyes.

"Don't you know?" Thorin murmured, low, and he raised a hand to Bilbo's face, cupping his cheek and Bilbo only shook his head, his heart rabbiting frantically in his chest and oh, honestly, they always did things the wrong way round. He let his eyes slip closed as Thorin drew him down, met the soft, sweet press of lips with his own. Tongues danced lightly, tracing mouths still swollen from past pleasure, and Bilbo sighed again at the tenderness of it before Thorin drew back enough to whisper against his lips. "I adored it."

"Oh," Bilbo exhaled and it wasn't the thought of books that sent a droplet of pure warmth pool in his belly. "Yes, well," Bilbo gulped before he added, daringly. "I thought you might."

Soft laughter gusted over his mouth before Thorin took his lips again, kissing him with lazy ardor and Bilbo met each press of lips with his own, basking in the mingled warmth of the firelight and Thorin. 

Breakfast tomorrow would simply have to sort itself out. 

-finis-


End file.
